


The Afterlife of the Scene

by acareeroutofrobbingbanks



Category: Panic! at the Disco
Genre: Afterlife, Angst, M/M, Multi, Post split, death!fic, kind of, post life, sex scenes, sex scenes with a ghost
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-20
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-10 05:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4379468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acareeroutofrobbingbanks/pseuds/acareeroutofrobbingbanks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ryan Ross wants to forget all about Panic! at the Disco and go about living his life. After he dies, some of his plans end up getting changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The doorbell rang at the most inopportune time physically possible, and later, Ryan would swear to all that he found holy that Pete timed it that way. Really, he knows that there was no way Pete could have known he was busy, but he was annoyed enough to claim he believed it anyway.

Knock knock knock knock knock, the door kept banging consistently, whoever it was not bother to take their fist away long enough to give it a break, and Dan stood up, smiling down at Ryan.

“I’ll get it,” Dan said, smirking at Ryan, who shook his head rapidly, and tried to say: “No you won’t!” but through the gag it sounded more like “Mo ooh woh!”

Ryan writhed against the straps, wishing the gag were loose enough for him to say “red” or “stop” or some kind of safeword, because he knew exactly who was at the door, and he was not in the mood for this. This wasn’t kinky at all, but Dan probably thought it was, thought Ryan would like the squirming while he signed for a UPS package. But then-

“Hey, is Ryan here?”

“I- sorry, Pete Wentz?”

Ryan let out a frustrated scream, and he heard Dan say “Um, he’s a little tied up- er, busy right now, can you come back later?”  
“No,” Pete sounded amused, Ryan could hear the horsey smile in his voice. “No, I really can’t.”

“What’s this about?” Dan asked. They were getting closer, Ryan could hear Dan trying to push Pete back into the entry.

“Ryan has rehearsal tonight,” Pete said, and Ryan groaned. “I know he’s in there.”

“Give us a minute?” Dan pleaded.

The door slammed open, and Pete’s eyes widened ever so slightly as he took in the sight of Ryan; who was tied to the four corners of the bed, spread eagled, and completely naked, drooling around a ball gag. Ryan met Pete’s eyes, and Pete mostly looked amused.

“I guess he is a little tied up,” Pete agreed.

A humiliating half hour later, Ryan was wearing significantly more clothes, and he and Dan were sitting in the back seat of Pete’s car, Dan holding his hand and shooting him apologetic smiles from time to time. Ryan was trying to avoid meeting his eyes, for as long as he could avoid it. If he admitted it, this was partially his fault, he should have told Dan about this earlier, but still. he was angry. He had forgotten as well.

And Ryan had absolutely every intention of not going tonight. It was the most respectful thing to do for Brendon and Spencer to just not even show up. He was going to fake sick. Brent didn’t have to go, so why should he?

Apparently, Pete didn’t get the memo that Ryan’s not going was _the right thing to do_. And Pete, annoying as ever, was making small talk.

“So, Ryan, this your boyfriend?” Ryan winced, and finally met Dan’s eyes. Dan, helpfully, shrugged.

“Well, he’s a boy, and he’s my friend,” Ryan said at long last.

“Your boy and your friend and he ties you up sometimes,” Pete reminded Ryan. Ryan nodded, staring out the window.

“I’ve gotta pick up one more person,” Pete said. “I didn’t get Patrick earlier because I knew he’d wanna play good cop with you, but we need to swing by his hotel now.”

“Patrick Stump?” Dan asked, wide eyed.

“He’s really not that impressive,” Ryan muttered.

“Watch yourself,” Pete snapped, sounding more angry than amused for the first time that night.

Believe it or not, this wasn’t the most uncomfortable car ride of Ryan’s life. Spencer drove him home after the band broke up. That was much worse.

And even that didn’t come close to car rides with his father…

“But Patrick Stump has produced, like-”

“Everything,” Ryan finished Dan’s sentence wearily. He stared out the window, wishing he could be anywhere but there.

The trees and buildings blurred by as he stared out the window, only broken up by the street lights. Ryan rolled down the window, trying to feel breeze on his face, but it was so cold when he did. Back in Vegas, even the heaviest wind still managed to be oppressively warm. Here in LA, it smelled awful, and it was unpredictable, being right next to the ocean. All the palm trees looked plastic, and the buildings were low and sun bleached, like bone.

“You’re being morbid,” Dan whispered, squeezing Ryan’s hand, and Ryan had to smile. It always seemed almost like Dan could read his mind, and Ryan turned and kissed him lightly on the lips. Dan beamed at him.

“We’re here!” Pete called, jumping out of the car, then leaned back in and said, “You coming?”

Ryan wouldn’t have, he didn’t want to, but something in Pete’s smile reminded Ryan of the way Pete used to talk to him, always friendly and excited, like an older kid leading him off to an adventure, and Ryan got out, motioning for Dan to follow.

The three of them got halfway to the door when Patrick walked out, dressed in a tuxedo that looked almost identical to Pete’s.

“You’re fifteen minutes late,” he said, eyebrow raised. “What will Brendon say if you get the guest of honor there late?”

“I’ll drive fast,” Pete promised, shaking his car keys in Patrick’s face. As Pete turned, Dan stumbled forward towards Patrick, and Ryan was exceedingly thankful that he didn’t try to bow.

“Hi, uh, Mr. Stump, sir,” he blustered, sticking his hand out and smiling nervously. Patrick’s expression grew cold.

“Hello, Mr…?” he prompted, his expression and voice flat. Ryan stepped forward defensively.

“Keyes,” Ryan said, meeting Patrick’s eyes with an equally hard gaze. “Dan Keyes.”

“Oh!” Patrick said, smiling then, and shaking Dan’s hand. “I’m so sorry, I thought you might’ve been-”

“Shane,” Ryan said. “He thought you were Shane.” He was trying very hard to not be annoyed.

“Nah,” Dan laughed. “Still have all my teeth.” He pulled his lips back over his teeth to demonstrate.

“Anyway-” Ryan began, moving towards the back seat, but Dan interrupted him with; “Man, I really love your work.”

Patrick’s eyes lit up, and Ryan almost, almost met Pete’s gaze to share a “we lost him” expression, but remember that he was angry with him, and Pete hadn’t shared a knowing look with Ryan in years. Sooner than Dan could say “Truant Wave,” he and Patrick were enraptured in conversation, sitting down in the back seat together. Pete had been holding the car keys out for Patrick, but he instead sighed and climbed in the driver’s side again. Ryan looked at the passenger seat like it was going to eat him, but Ryan sat down with as much grace and conviction as possible.

“Let’s get this over with,” Pete muttered, and the car sped away.

Ryan stared out the window at the city lights rushing by, a blur of endless color kept far away from him by the windows of the car that he was sure cost more than his house. The colors of the smoke in the new album cover. The colors he used to paint his eyes with, but didn’t anymore.

Some obscure award show decided that they would only air every twenty years, and either in spite of this or because of this it grew to an extreme fame. It offered music movie and pop culture awards to the best of the best of the past two decades, so the stakes were rather high. Ryan hadn’t really cared that much until Panic! at the Disco was lined up to win Best Music Video, and a performance by the original four was requested by the company. Though they said original members in the paperwork, no one kicked up a fuss when Brent backed out.

Ryan was not so lucky. And it was how he ended up being dragged downtown to go through a dry run of the show that evening, with all involved in it. He had gone to more than one awkward practice with the band, but it was soon discovered that yes, he still knew how to play I Write Sins Not Tragedies, and no, he didn’t need much work. This practice, however, was giving him nervous flutters in his stomach. There was going to be a crowd, and he hadn’t dealt with a crowd in years, and Pete used to talk to him about stage fright, but now Pete probably hated him.

Still, Ryan was going nuts stuck in his own head, with Dan and Patrick talking music too loud in the back.

“There’s too many people,” Ryan said, low enough that only Pete could hear him. He wondered if Pete had heard when he didn’t respond for a moment, but he eventually sighed.

“Yeah, I know,” Pete said. He shot Ryan an encouraging look. “Still get stage fright after the shows you’ve played?”

“Haven’t played in a while,” Ryan replied, turning to face the window again. Pete made a noise in the back of his throat, and Ryan felt a hand on his shoulder. He instantly shrugged it off with a huff.

“Why are _you_ mad at _me_?” Pete asked, sounding offended. “I’m not the one who just took off out of nowhere-”

“I didn’t take off out of nowhere, I got left behind,” Ryan snapped, his eyes dark as he turned to glare at Pete. “And don’t think for a second that because you got one side of the story you know the whole fucking thing.”

“I know enough,” Pete said. He was facing the road so he wouldn’t have to look at Ryan, Ryan was sure of it.

“Or maybe you just have to believe you’re in the right because you’ve done too much you can’t take back,” Ryan muttered, but Pete might not have heard it. He sunk lower in his seat. He wondered if it was too late to put on makeup, not much, but enough that he looked younger, more stylish. More like he used to.

Pete sighed theatrically. “It’s normal to be scared.”

“Don’t talk down to me.”

“Seriously, why do you hate me?”

Ryan grew silent. He felt stupid, emotional tears welling up in his eyes, and he didn’t want them to escape.

“Nice seeing Brendon and Spencer again?” Pete asked. Ryan was definitely gonna cry, yeah.

“You don’t have to make small talk with me,” he said, his voice cracking slightly while he sat next to his hero who was tolerating his presence as a favor to a friend. He turned the radio on full blast, drowning out Dan and Patrick’s conversation.

“Oooh, Cheap Trick,” Pete said, turning the knob on the radio to the right until Ryan could practically feel the music blasting him. The theme song from That 70’s Show blared at him from all the speakers, plus Pete and Patrick and Dan loudly singing along. Ryan’s felt a twinge of betrayal towards his boyfriend, who was supposed to be taking his side, right?

“WE’RE ALL ALRIGHT!” Dan screamed in Ryan’s ear, and Ryan shied away from the noise, leaning his head up against the window. He just wanted to be somewhere else, anywhere else…

“You called me a has been,” he said into the pane of glass, very quiet, but the voice next to him cut off mid phrase. Ryan, not turning to Pete, could see a bright red truck barrelling at the red light perpendicular to where they were crossing.

“Ryan-” Pete began, drowned out by the singing in the backseat, the truck not slowing down, and cut off by Ryan screaming:

“PETE!”

The truck slammed into Pete’s car, glass embedding itself in Ryan’s skin, and his vision was overwhelmed by blackness.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan wakes up and makes an unpleasant discovery.

              Ryan definitely felt pain. He thought that when your vision faded to black you were supposed to stop feeling pain, but even though he was maybe blind, he could still feel himself being sliced into ribbons, jagged metal digging into his side. He could still feel the rip at his ribs and the throbbing in his skull where it was pressed up against something unyielding, and he could feel warm blood dousing his skin.

              And to think, he’d never been in a car accident before. His consciousness seemed to be fading in and out, though. He couldn’t hear anything sometimes, but other times he thought he could hear Pete screaming: screaming his name, screaming Patrick’s name, and sometimes just screaming wordlessly.

              Ryan tried to will himself to pass out, but the red hot pain of everything was keeping him awake. Eventually he began to see red and blue flashes behind his eyelids, but he wasn’t sure if they were just in his imagination or not.

              Eventually, the pain stopped, suddenly and abruptly, and Ryan felt cool all over. After all the pain, this cool was blissful, like being dipped in a cold pool of water after blistering in the sun. He felt good enough that he decided to chance opening his eyes, and he was shocked to see that he was in a hospital room. He’d spent enough time in hospitals with his dad that he recognized it instantly - the speckled white styrofoam tiles on the ceiling, the overwhelming smell of antiseptics, the brushed chrome instruments everywhere. He thought he should still be in pain, if he was in a hospital.

              “Morphine,” he muttered aloud to himself. He was shocked at how smooth and dry his throat felt, not sticky or hot, but perfectly fine.

              Ryan couldn’t see any doctors around, nor could he feel any IVs sticking out of him, so perhaps he’d been unconscious longer than he thought. Maybe he’d missed the whole award show ordeal, that would almost make this worth it.

              Hesitantly, Ryan sat up. There was no resistance of some cord he may not have seen, so he pushed his torso up at a ninety degree angle, and called out.

              “Hello?”

              He waited a minute, and when there was no response, he slid his legs over the edge of the starchy white bed, setting them on the ground. He appeared to still be wearing his same outfit rather than a hospital gown, which was weird, but who knew? Maybe he was getting discharged. God, he hoped he was getting discharged. He hated hospitals. All he could ever think about in hospitals was his dad, and-

              No, now wasn’t the time. Ryan noted with distaste that his shirt was ripped down the front, bearing most of his chest, but he supposed it didn’t matter much. He’d never been particularly self conscious about his looks, and a bit of muscle gain over the last few years definitely helped. He puffed his chest out and pulled the door to his room open.

              Outside, dozens of doctors and nurses were buzzing around, running back and forth and yelling into radios, frantic. The scene was so chaotic that it disturbed Ryan to look at, and he wondered what on earth could be happening to make a residential hall that busy. He tried to hang close to the wall as he walked down the corridor so as to stay out of all of their ways, but thankfully, no one ran into him. It was lucky Ryan wasn’t a doctor, he thought, he wasn’t nearly coordinated enough.

              There was another set of heavy double doors at the end of the hallway, constantly swinging open and shut and Ryan ducked through them while they swung forward, entering the cold light of… the waiting room.

              It seemed to be a waiting room, anyway. Caged televisions stuck on MSNBC, couches and water coolers and a handful of people waiting with looks of dread on their faces. Ryan looked around the room to try and find a desk where he could check out when he instead caught sight of Pete sitting in the corner, looking like hell.

              Ryan opened his mouth to call Pete’s name, but decided better of it, given how somber the waiting room was. Instead, he walked over and sat next to Pete, who just looked away. Ryan remained quiet as well. Maybe it hadn’t been that long and he simply hadn’t been hurt as badly as he thought he had, which meant-

              Oh God, Patrick had been on Ryan’s side of the car, hadn’t he? That would explain Pete looking as fragile and gaunt as he did.

              “What’s the news?” Ryan asked, and Pete sniffled. Ryan figured he shouldn’t push it, and instead pulled his knees up to his chest. He wanted to ask about Dan, but Dan had been sitting furthest from the impact, and he didn’t think Pete was up to talk about anything, so Ryan put his hand over Pete’s.

              They sat in silence for longer than Ryan bothered to keep track of, the news stories repeating themselves before a doctor came to face Pete, her face drawn. Ryan’s heart sunk.

              “Mr. Wentz,” the doctor shook her head, and Pete took in a ragged breath. “I’m very sorry, he was beyond help by the time he came in.”

              Jesus, this couldn’t be happening. Pete without Patrick made no sense, there was no way Pete could take something like this. Ryan was shocked Pete hadn’t done something drastic yet, ripping out the doctor’s eyes or something of the like.

              “You- you-” Pete stuttered weakly, looking so drained and broken.

              “Your friend is dead, but I’m afraid we need to speak to his next of kin. Do you have a number we could reach someone on?” the doctor asked gently, but not gently enough.

              “Christ, go easy on him,” Ryan snapped. “Fuck off for a minute, okay?”

              The doctor ignored him staring Pete down, but before Ryan could rebuke her again, Pete spoke up.

              “It’s- fuck, I don’t know, um, I can call someone who does know, I think,” Pete said. This struck Ryan as rather odd- why wouldn’t Pete know who to contact for Patrick?

              The doctor turned to leave, but a harsh cry burst out of Pete’s throat, ragged and breathless.

              “NO! wait, what about my other friend?!” he yelled. The doctor turned back around.

              “I don’t have his case,” she said slowly, “But we’re trying to get him stabilized. He hasn’t regained consciousness yet.”

              “Should I call his family?” Pete choked out, and the doctor gave him a sad look before she nodded.

              **_Family?_**

              “Pete!” Ryan yelled, staring Pete down. “Is Dan dead?!”

              But Pete wasn’t listening. He had his elbows on his knees and his face in his hands and his whole body was shaking with sobs.

              “PETE!” Ryan screamed, stamping his foot, hysteria building up inside of him. “Is Dan dead?!”

              When Pete again did not respond, Ryan’s fury bubbled over and he grabbed Pete’s shoulders to spin him round, but his hands just slid right off of Pete. No response.

              “Pete! Oh God, Pete!” Dan ran out of the bathroom, kneeling down next to Pete. Ryan had only a second of relief- had he forgotten that someone else was in the car with them?

              “What happened?” Dan asked, and Pete sobbed louder.

“I’m sorry-!” he sputtered, and Dan’s face fell. Something suddenly clicked in Ryan’s head.

“Dan?” Ryan asked, snapping his hand in front of Dan’s face. Dan showed no reaction at all, and Ryan began to panic.

              “Dan? Pete?” he asked, clapping in front of both of them, trying to grab Dan’s hand and feeling his fingers slide off before even touching his skin.

              “Guys?” Ryan was suddenly choked up, tears threatening to spill from his eyes. “Please, don’t do this to me.”

              “Do you- do you know his mom’s number?” Pete asked.

              “I’m right here!” Ryan screamed again. He stamped and shouted and tried pulling Pete’s hair, all to no avail.

              “They never talked,” Dan said, shaking his head.

              “They need next of kin,” Pete whispered.

              “Do you know the bitch?” Dan laughed harshly.

              “Unfortunately,” Pete said. “But legally-”

              “Yeah, okay, fuck,” Dan ran his hands through his hair.

              “Please, please don’t say it,” Ryan whispered. He was shaking so hard and trying not to cry.

              “You called the band?” Dan asked.

              “No,” Pete said. “I will in a minute.”

              “I don’t have her number,” Dan said. “But I think- I mean, he mentioned her and Spencer’s mom talking last time she called.”

              “You want me to ask him to find that out?” Pete sounded appalled, and Dan looked offended, standing up, anger pouring off of him.

              “I am his boyfriend!” Dan thundered. “Just because you weren’t in his life doesn’t mean it stopped. And I was just as important to Ryan as Spencer ever-”

              Dan had to stop. Both of them started disintegrating at the word ‘was’, but Ryan lost it at his name.

              “I’M NOT DEAD!” he screamed, thrown into a rage. He kicked and stormed until he actually kicked a chair over, and those less occupied than Dan and Pete all stared at it in horror.

              “I’m not dead,” Ryan repeated, sinking into a sitting position on the hospital floor. “I can’t be. Why am I still here?”

              “Please help,” Pete looked like he was made of glass. “I don’t know what to do- who to call- I have to call Patrick’s wife-!”

              “SHUT UP!” Ryan screamed. “ALL OF YOU SHUT UP!”

              It did nothing. Dan and Pete kept arguing regardless, Pete quickly dissolving into uselessness. Ryan kicked at more objects, but none of them tipped over. Ryan was sobbing, but no tears came from his eyes. His skin felt like powder.

              “I don’t want to be dead,” Ryan announced, but no one could hear him.

              He looked back over at Pete and Dan, talking in hushed tones, and Ryan rushed out of the waiting room. He couldn’t stand to be around them for another second. He ran back through the hallway he had come from, his feet making no noise as he ran down the linoleum floor. Trauma hall? What would someone call this, anyway, he didn’t know. He didn’t know where he was going, just trying to be far away, when he saw Patrick through one of the windows in the doors. (Why do doors in hospitals have windows? Did it help something?) Ryan put his hands on the door and pushed firmly, but the door stayed firmly shut. Ryan gritted his teeth, looking at Patrick with the breathing tube trailing out of his mouth, trying to get angry again, and pushed as hard as he could.

              The door didn’t budge.

              Ryan stamped his foot in frustration. If he was dead, if he was really a ghost, shouldn’t he be intangible? He tried to push his hand through the door, but it hit the door as though he were hitting a solid brick wall.

              Luckily, Ryan didn’t have to wait long. A nurse bustled through the hall and threw the door open, allowing Ryan to jump in after her. She checked all the beeping screens hooked up to Patrick and made notes on a clipboard, but Ryan grabbed Patrick’s hand in his. It was cold and clammy, like he had a fever, and Ryan wished he could squeeze tighter.

              “Pete’s worried sick,” Ryan murmured.

              “Figures,” Patrick said. Ryan jumped back a good five feet in shock.

              “Can you hear me?” he asked, but Patrick’s body looked still and lifeless.

              “Patrick, can you hear me?” Ryan repeated.

              “Distantly,” Patrick murmured, but his lips didn’t move. Ryan blinked. Maybe he wasn’t dead at all- maybe he was just having the worst trip of his life.

              “You shouldn’t make a habit of talking to the living, Ryan.”

              Ryan twisted around to see where the new, gruff voice came from. A grungy looking guy with long, dirty blonde hair leaned up against the wall, cigarette hanging out of his lips. He looked unbearably familiar, and very dead, but before Ryan could confirm his theories, he said:

              “You can’t smoke in here.”

              The man laughed, a shockingly bright sound. Ryan didn’t expect that.

              “I’m serious,” Ryan said, jerking his thumb at Patrick, “He’s hooked up to a respirator, you could fuck up his breathing.”

              “’s not real,” he said. “No more real than we are, anyway. Don’t think there’ve been any studies, but I doubt ghost smoke hurts the lungs of the living.”

              “You’re Kurt Cobain,” Ryan said. He nodded.

              “You’re dead,” Ryan added. Kurt nodded again.

              “So are you, kid,” he said.

              “I’m older than you,” Ryan said.

              “You’ve had more birthdays, but I was born in the sixties,” he said.

              “Why are you here?” Ryan asked. Kurt smiled at him, and stretched out the hand that wasn’t holding his cigarette.

              “I’m taking you to the afterlife, kid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, sorry the update took so long! Please tell me in the comments- would you guys be interested in some side Peterick, or no? I'm torn.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The star studded afterlife and the grimness of reality.

              In spite of the pervasive sense of numbness that Ryan felt, he couldn’t help but notice a tug of curiosity pulling at him as he grabbed Kurt Cobain’s hand. How could he not be curious?

              “Did you kill yourself?” Ryan asked. All the filters between his brain and mouth had disappeared, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel guilty about the intrusive question.

              “You’re dead,” Kurt said, “I’m taking you to the afterlife, and you want to know how I died?”

              “Kind of,” Ryan said.

              “None of your fucking business, kid.” Kurt said, rolling his eyes, then closing them, scrunching his face up in focus.

              “What are you doing?” Ryan asked.

              “Focusing,” Kurt replied, his teeth gritted. Ryan remained silent for a moment.

              “Focusing on what?” he asked after a pause. Kurt breathed in deeply, and breathed out for ten seconds.

              “Getting you to the afterlife,” he said.

              “Are we teleporting?” Ryan asked.

              “Yes!” Kurt snapped, his eyes flying open and his grip tightening on Ryan’s hand. Ryan gasped as what felt like a surge of electricity rushed through him, the first thing he had really, viscerally felt since he died. His vision flashed white, and when he could see again, the hospital was clearly far behind him.

              The two of them were now standing in an enormous, pale marble hall, with sunlight streaming through at all angles. It was unnatural and dreamlike, but it wasn’t too far off what Ryan thought the afterlife should be like. Then again, the long row of desks in front of them, with lines coming off of each of them was a little unexpected.

              “I’m getting better at this,” Kurt said, sounding pleased with himself. “Made it directly into the music hall this time.”

              “The music hall? This looks more like city hall. Or a DMV,” Ryan said, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

              “The dead are categorized into what profession they were in when they were alive,” Kurt said, beginning to walk away from Ryan at a brisk pace. “Musician’s hall is one of the oldest in this world, though admittedly, it’s not the most heavily populated,” he said, gesturing at the different desks as he led Ryan down. “We’re going straight to the head of rock and roll. Now, normally I’d take you to someone distantly in the realm of pop punk, but we need a head honcho right now.”

              Ryan stumbled over his own feet while he tried to keep up. Everything seemed so normal until he looked closely at the people waiting in line. Some of them, like him, had clothes covered in blood. A lot of them were crying. A scant few looked excited, but most just looked numb, number than Ryan felt.

              “What’s going on?” Ryan pleaded, trying not to whimper. Kurt tossed Ryan a bored and annoyed look, as though the explanation were obvious.

              “We’re in the afterlife, obviously,” Kurt said.

              “But I- I don’t understand,” Ryan said, his face scrunched up. Kurt rolled his eyes, still walking at a brisk pace.

              “I wouldn’t expect you to. But you won’t have to deal with it for long,” he said, and sounded upset, possibly even apprehensive about something. Then again, Ryan may have just imagined it.

              “Okay, so, we’re organized into profession,” Ryan said. “But, organized for what? Do we get judged or something?”

              “Well, I suppose if you did something awful there’d be a bit of penitence,” Kurt said thoughtfully. “But not typically. Most people don’t deserve whatever you’re picturing as hell. Actually, no one does. Usually you go to your afterlife of choice, but occasionally you get a choice.”

              Ryan waited a full minute for him to continue, and when he didn’t, he sighed. “A choice between what?”

              “Depends,” Kurt grunted. Ryan gritted his teeth. He had no idea dead rock stars could be so annoying. And he didn’t know why this walk was taking so long. He needed to get elsewhere, anywhere, know if Patrick was okay, what was going on, but clearly he wasn’t going to get much out of Kurt.

Kurt led them past all the lines in front of desks, and then weaved behind the desks, entering a door in the back. Ryan followed him as the door swung shut into a modest but attractive office, the kind he imagined underpaid professors at Ivy League schools to use.

              The room was small, all paneled in wood, and in the corner a record player was running, playing soft, jazzy music that was probably meant to be soothing. Sitting behind a large desk was a face that Ryan would have, thanks to Brendon Urie, recognized anywhere.

              “Mr. Ross,” Frank Sinatra said, waving one hand over to a stiff backed chair in front of the desk. “Please, have a seat. We have much to discuss.”

              “We do?” Ryan asked, his voice filled with trepidation.

              “Why, certainly, Ryan,” he said, sitting back down even as Ryan kept standing. “You see, we have quite a conundrum on our hands. You shouldn’t be dead.”

***

              Ryan was late.

              Brendon had been pacing back and forth for the better part of an hour, fuming. It was all well and good if Ryan wanted to go off and live behind his moat and castle and turn into some musical hermit that just read libraries full of books and never spoke to anyone that cared about him ever again, but this was Brendon’s job on the line. More than his job, his life, and Ryan treated it like nothing. Wasn’t this sort of thing the reason they had kicked Brent out in the first place?

“He’ll be here,” Spencer kept saying, unconcerned. Spencer didn’t want to be there either, Brendon noted, feeling a small, ragged twist in his chest at the realization. Maybe he just had a habit of driving people off.

Spencer yawed a little. He was playing on his phone while he spoke. “Besides, it’s just a rehearsal anyway.  He’s probably practiced enough on his own.”

              Brendon ground his teeth together, not trusting himself to respond. If he’d ever had blind faith in Ryan, he’d lost it a long, long time ago. He was over an hour late, and the managers were getting antsy.

              Brendon’s phone lit up with a call from Pete, and he snatched at it. Pete was supposed to be dragging Ryan out of his house in the first place, it was about time someone called.

              “Oh fucking Christ, man, I swear to god if you tell me that Ryan found some way to weasel out of this I will personally-!”

              “Brendon,” Pete cut him off, and Brendon shut up immediately. Pete’s voice sounded raw and horrible, like he was crying, and Brendon suddenly felt like icy fingers were closing around his heart. Like he could feel the blow coming just before it hit.

              “Pete? What’s wrong?” Brendon asked, cupping his hand around the mouthpiece and turning to face the wall. The hustle and bustle and all the noise of the studio around him was suddenly way too loud, but none of it translated into real speech anymore, as he tried to focus on only Pete.

              “Bren,” Pete hiccupped, and he was definitely crying on the phone, “I don’t know how to- how to say this. There was an accident.”

              “Accident?” Brendon repeated breathlessly, his chest constricting tighter and colder than before. He was going to throw up.

              “We got hit. Patrick’s hurt really bad and Ryan-” Pete drew in a sharp breath of air, “Ryan is dead.”

              The world didn’t stop. It didn’t even start going in slow motion. Nothing at all changed, except for the fact that Brendon was suddenly drowning in ice water, pouring into his lungs and overwhelming him from the inside out. He always thought, somehow, that he wouldn’t believe it when someone told him that someone he loved died, he thought he would scream and yell and tell them it wasn’t true, it couldn’t be.

              But Pete wouldn’t lie to him.

              “Brendon? Are you there?”

              Pete sounded tinny and far away, and Brendon’s legs weren’t cooperating anymore, so he let himself slide to the floor, with no sound to accompany him but a too loud heartbeat in his ears.

              It took Brendon a minute to come to his senses again, shoving all of his feelings of shock and horror and emptiness, dark black endless emptiness, deep down in the bottom of his stomach, and he took a deep breath.

              “Did you say Patrick was hurt?” Brendon asked. He, unlike Pete, did not sound horrible. He sounded like a computerized voice, with no emotion at all.

              “Yeah,” Pete choked out a sob. “He’s not responsive. They- they called his mom, but I can’t see him.”

              Pete sounded like he’d swallowed broken glass. He needed help. Brendon could help. He could help his friend and deal with Pete’s emotions instead of his own.

              “I’m on my way,” Brendon said, and hung up without saying goodbye. He started instantly walking out of the building, his brow furrowing in confusion when Spencer held out an arm to stop him.

              “Where do you think you’re going?” Spencer asked. Brendon opened his mouth and floundered for words, then let it close again.

              “And where’s Ryan? Weren’t you supposed to call and ask? You’re being mature about this, aren’t you?” Spencer asked. Yet again, Brendon opened his mouth to try to speak, but couldn’t get the words out. Spencer and Ryan had been reconnecting, Spencer was Ryan’s best friend, Spencer and Ryan were indivisible.

              “Brendon?” Spencer asked, and he sounded very far away. “Are you okay?”

              “Uh-uh,” Brendon said, shaking his head too fast. It hurt, and he blinked. He needed to throw up. He couldn’t just say the words out loud, the words that hung at the top of his throat poised to escape but unable to be said aloud, made real by him.

              “Brendon!” Spencer was yelling, but it sounded like Brendon was underwater.

              “I need to go to the hospital,” Brendon said, his voice calm and smooth even as he felt he was going to shatter into a million pieces.

              “What happened?” Spencer asked, panicked. Spencer probably thought something was wrong with Brendon, he realized, and chuckled just slightly at the thought, and couldn’t stop laughing. He had to focus, really think about the act of not laughing to stay somber as he spoke.

              “Ryan’s dead. I have to go. I’m sorry,” he said, unable or unwilling to meet Spencer’s eyes as he bolted under his arm and towards the exit. He could hear Spencer and Zack yelling after him, but neither of them stopped him as he ran outside.

              The whole world was blurring strangely as Brendon moved. He remembered running out of the doors into the tepid night air, the strange and gentle accent of the taxi driver, the warm wind getting all his hair out of place. He remembered walking into the freezing cold hospital, and most of all, he remembered the crushing look on Pete’s face, bloody and scrunched up and red from crying, snot running down his chin. Pete looked exactly like he had crawled out of a wreck, and when Brendon saw himself in the reflection of the window, he still looked like himself, like a male model about to perform.

              He remembered Pete sobbing into his shimmering, sparkling jacket, but he couldn’t remember anything Pete said. He remembered the hollow look in Dan’s eyes, and the anger beneath it, but not whether he had any thoughts about it. He remembered Spencer and Zack and Dallon and Sarah all showing up, Spencer calling his mom to get Ryan’s mother’s number, the blank stares, the consolation, Sarah dragging Pete back home with them so he wouldn’t be alone.

              He couldn’t remember crying. It wasn’t until late that night, so late that it was morning, Sarah already asleep, the sky starting to lighten outside his bedroom window, that it finally hit him like a heavy blow in the stomach that Ryan was dead. Never coming back.

              And suddenly there was no air, no sunlight, and the shock of the realization came over him so harshly that Brendon was gasping for breath, tears falling from his eyes with no warning.

              Dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry I haven't updated in forever! i know the chapter is tiny, but I'm gonna try and work on it more regularly! Special thanks to the anonymous tumblr user that begged me to update, haha


	4. Chapter 4

“Not that I'm disagreeing with you,” Ryan said after a moment. “But what exactly do you mean, I shouldn't be dead?”

“Simply what it sounds like.” Frank Sinatra said. Ryan felt like he should feel starstruck, but mostly he felt annoyed. Did the crooner have to be so theatrical? Ryan raised one eyebrow, bored looking.

“There is no such thing as fate,” Sinatra said, hands folded on top of his desk. Ryan felt a distant suspicion that this was going to turn into a monologue of sorts, but then again, he was in no hurry. He had all of eternity. The thought settled like a hollow weight in his stomach.

“There is no such thing as fate. So I cannot know if you were meant to die tonight. Perhaps you were meant to die in a car accident this very night. But regardless of whether or not anything is truly “meant to be”, the dead are strictly prohibited from interfering with the living.”

He paused, probably waiting for Ryan to ask a question. Ryan humored the theatricality.

“So, what, someone already dead interfered with my life?” He asked, trying not to sound bored.

“No,” Sinatra said. “Someone who's dead killed you.”

At that, Ryan began to feel anger rising inside of him.

“Who?” he demanded.

“You've already met your murderer,” Sinatra said coldly, turning to Kurt, who winced.

“Oh, you've gotta be shitting me,” Ryan said softly. Kurt made a face, his hands twisting together nervously.

“I didn't mean to kill you,” he began. “I was aiming for Patrick, but possession isn't really my strong suit.”

Ryan felt like he had been pushed into deep water, unsure of even where the surface of the water was. Nothing made sense, and he was listening to the long dead music legend Kurt Cobain confess to attempted assassination.

“Possession?” Ryan asked.

“It’s- well, it’s kind of a long story,” Kurt said. Ryan’s eyes narrowed.

“Well apparently, I’ve got an eternity,” Ryan said. “So. What’s the story.”

“I never wanted to be a fucking musical grim reaper,” Kurt said, “I hated fame. I didn’t want to spend all of eternity getting recognized. But if you are influential enough in your field, you automatically get the job. Not my choice. The only way I get to pass on, finally move over into the afterlife proper, is if someone takes my place. I needed someone influential to rock and roll to die, and I’d had it. I wanted to speed along the process, and I watch the living. I knew how influential your friend was.”

“You were willing to kill someone to get out of your job?” Ryan asked.

“It sounds bad when you say it like that.”

“It sounds bad no matter how you say it!”

“I didn’t mean to kill you.”

“What the fuck?” Ryan screamed. He turned to Frank Sinatra, who was giving Kurt Cobain a very scolding look, but not as angry as Ryan thought he really should have been.

“Rest assured, he will be dealt with,” Sinatra said. He had a very pretty speaking voice, and Ryan was reminded again, still painfully, of Brendon. He would be so excited when he died. “In the meantime, Mr. Ross, we can call a committee meeting to decide whether or not you are influential enough to take Kurt’s place as reaper, but I can tell you now that it’s highly unlikely.”

“I really wasn’t looking for a job anyway,” Ryan said, but he felt cold and numb. His muscles were all locked and his heart hammered as he waited. This was the moment, he was going to cease existing. Or, he realized with a jolt, maybe if there was this much he would find an afterlife. Some kind of heaven. He would see his dad again, he thought, and his chest ached.

“In that case,” Sinatra slid his chair out from behind the desk so he could stare Ryan head on, nothing between them. “Since you died both violently and before your time, you have a few options. Now, I read in your file that you are agnostic, so you have quite a few afterlife options to pick from. Personally, I recommend the Wiccan afterlife. I’ve taken nearly all my vacation days there, it’s a lovely place. Of course, you went to Catholic high school, so if  you’d rather try your hand at a Catholic or Christian afterlife-”

“I don’t think so,” Ryan said, shaking his head violently. Sinatra nodded.

“I know you weren’t deeply involved in Eastern beliefs, but we can reincarnate you, if you like. No promises on where you’ll end up, so it’s a risk, but you’ll carry on with all the lessons you learned in this life.”

Ryan didn’t feel like he’d learned anything in his life, not really. He had a head that buzzed with questions and memories of things he had left without closure, but not a lot of great epiphanies.

“I’m not sure,” Ryan said, staring at the ground. Surely he couldn’t be expected to choose an eternity immediately?

“Of course,” Sinatra hesitated, “I really, highly discourage this option, but since your death was young and violent, you can remain on earth.”

“You can bring me back?” Ryan gasped, but the man was already shaking his head.

“No, no, the dead stay dead. It’s the one rule we have no exceptions to. But you could remain on earth as a ghost.”

Ryan considered it, chewing on his lower lip. “For how long?”

“As long as you wish to. Though I must warn you, the longer you stay, the harder it will be to leave.”

Ryan nodded. “Where’s my dad?”

“Not my jurisdiction,” Sinatra said apologetically. Ryan glanced at Kurt Cobain, leaning back in his chair and looking apathetic. 

Ryan’s life had been a rollercoaster between fantasy and nightmare. He hated the fame, hated his own best friends, got everything and then detested it once he had it. Dan would move on, and none of his friends really needed him. He never spoke to what remained of his family, and he doubted there would even be a worthwhile funeral to haunt. If he just spoke up, there was nothing between him and an eternity of peace and happiness.

So why was his heart swollen against his ribcage in pain, begging him to go back?

“I can change my mind about being a ghost anytime, right?” Ryan asked. Sinatra gave him a sad look.

“Anytime.”

“I want to go back.”

***

Brendon woke up after only a couple hours of restless sleep. When he woke up, it was too hot, his heart was hammering and something was twisted around his legs, holding him down. In a panic, he lunged off of the bed, crashing into the ground with a soft cry, only to discover that his legs had just been tangled in the bed sheets.

Maybe, he thought to himself, it had been a bad dream. He didn’t really believe it had been, but he hoped it had, hoped none of this had really happened.

Brendon crept downstairs as quietly as he could, but his heart lurched as he reached the living room. Spencer, Zack, and Dallon were all sprawled out across the couches and the floor, and a hard lump welled up in Brendon’s throat. He dashed out the back door before he could start crying, and sat down at the edge of his pool.

Unsure of what else to do in a crisis, he lit a joint and began smoking, waiting for his heart rate to slow and his brain to stop firing at random so that he could finally fucking think. The sweet smelling haze surrounded him, and he hung his feet over the edge in the cold water, the sensation working to soothe him slightly. The sun had risen, but LA was still surrounded in a pink, early morning haze that only served to make it all feel more dream like.

Worst of all, the more his head cleared, the more this setting seemed familiar. If Brendon closed his eyes and took his feet out of the pool, the cold morning air could be that of the woodsy mountain he had loved so much. He felt the phantom heat of too skinny limbs just inches from his own, could almost hear that deep, throaty voice laughing and saying “Good shit, man.” He felt like if he leaned to the side, Ryan would be right there to catch him, giggling and shoving him to the side, calling him a lightweight and a dork and then, once they were both so high they couldn’t see straight, pressing smooth, dry lips just on top of his eyelids and whispering “You’re so beautiful.”

It wasn’t as though Brendon ever really expected to have him back, but he always thought that it was an option, somehow. That even if they were both married, there would be something there, some electricity intangible to anyone but them that would never really fade away no matter how far deep it was buried down.

Now there was no one alive to feel it but Brendon. Like he had shoved Ryan off the edge of the cabin roof and was sitting somewhere too tall for him all alone.

Brendon’s eyes snapped open and he wrapped his arms around his chest, glancing from side to side nervously. Pot didn’t usually make him paranoid, but he was feeling edgy now, and nothing was normal anymore. He shivered, though it wasn’t that cold out, and let out a deep breath.

“Can I have some?” he heard. Brendon looked up to see Spencer, looking strangely stoic and empty. Brendon had already started to hold the joint out to him before he caught himself and grimaced.

“Should you?” he asked. Spencer gave him a look, not threatening or angry or sad, just so intense and powerful that Brendon gave it to him without further question. Spencer sat down next to him, cross legged on the ground with his chin rested on his hand. 

They sat in silence for a few minutes until the whole joint was burnt to nothing and Spencer crushed it between his thumb and the stone edge of the pool. Brendon shivered again.

“Did it help you?” Spencer asked.

“No,” Brendon said. 

“Now what?” Spencer asked. Brendon cracked an insincere smile all of a sudden. 

“I get a better dealer?” he said with one dry chuckle.

“Might need it,” Spencer agreed. Then, “His mom won’t call me back.”

Brendon blinked, a little lost. “Whose mom?”

“Jesus,” Spencer hissed, rolling his eyes. Brendon got it, nodded, and Spencer went on. “I mean, I guess she doesn’t have to call me, but I- I mean, I don’t know if the funeral is gonna be here or in Vegas, and I- Jesus, you’d think the idiot who wrote an album full of lyrics for every Chuck Palahniuk book ever written could’ve made a fucking will that didn’t leave her in charge of everything.”

“Who would he have put in charge of it?” Brendon asked, the question coming out before he realized how much it hurt to ask. Spencer made a tiny, pained noise, and Brendon hunched up his shoulders. “Sorry.”

“I could do it,” Spencer said quietly. “I helped him with his dad’s- I mean, he did most of the work, but I helped, so I know what to do. It wasn’t a big funeral, but it doesn’t have to be. I mean, I’d rather not go to Vegas, but maybe he should be buried next to his dad, what do you think?”

“You know I really don’t want to talk about it, actually,” Brendon said. He felt like he’d been kicked in the chest. 

“Get used to it, we’re gonna have to do Patrick’s soon,” he said.

“Don’t!” Brendon yelled. “Don’t- don’t even say that!” he cried. Spencer looked hard, carved from stone, but he was shaking too. If Brendon was falling to pieces, he realized, what was it like to have known Ryan for as long as Spencer had. He’d never asked, but he doubted if Spencer had memories before knowing Ryan. This realization made Brendon feel guilty when the insistent tears started falling, but it didn’t stop them.

“We don’t have to talk about it,” Spencer said, softer. 

Brendon nodded, arms wrapped tight around his chest again. They were silent for only a moment when Spencer’s phone started ringing, and he swore when he saw the number.

“What is it?” Brendon asked thickly.

“Jon,” Spencer said, standing up as he answered. “Hey.”

Jon’s voice sounded tinny and unfamiliar to Brendon, but he could still distinguish the words coming through the speaker.

“ _ I went online this morning, and is it true? _ ”

Spencer looked helplessly at Brendon once. “Yeah, it is.”

“ _ I’m- I’m on my way out _ .” 

“We should call people,” Brendon said. “We should- we can’t let them find out on the news, fuck.”

“We can’t call everyone,” Spencer said. He held out a hand to Brendon. “Come on. We should go check on Pete.”

Brendon nodded numbly.

Sarah had set Pete up in the guest room, but in spite of the clean sheets it was clear that he hadn’t slept all night. He was just staring out the window, eyes red-rimmed.

“Hey,” Brendon said softly. Pete glanced at him and gave the slightest nod of acknowledgement before turning back to the window. His lips looked raw from biting them, and Brendon’s first instinct was to call Patrick and ask for help. The thought made his stomach swoop unpleasantly.

Nothing was right anymore.

“Do you wanna go visit at the hospital?” Brendon asked, and Pete nodded, standing up. 

The car ride was uneventful, but Pete sat in the middle of the backseat with his eyes shut the whole time. Brendon felt bad putting him back in a car, but could think of no other way to get him there. Luckily, it hadn’t taken long to sort out the situation with Patrick’s family, so visitation was relatively easy. 

He looked horrible. Gray-white and covered in bruises so deep purple they were almost black, Patrick didn’t look like someone who was going to make a speedy recovery. Looking at him made Brendon feel ill, and he left before anyone else did to sit down in the waiting room until they finished. He thought he saw something glint out of the corner of his eyes, but nothing was there.

Ryan’s mom finally called Spencer back. She had set up a funeral, a small one, back in Las Vegas. And Brendon wanted to be anywhere else.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ryan returns to the world of the living, more than some possibly wish he would

“So you killed me,” Ryan said. He was trying not to sound pissed off. After all, he was talking to a music legend. But he was still pretty pissed. 

“I regret it, if that helps,” Kurt said. 

The two of them had left the office of the ghost of Frank Sinatra (still weird) and were out in the lobby. Kurt was gliding, his toes not quite skimming the ground, but Ryan was still walking. He didn’t know how to fly yet, but it looked cool. He hoped to figure it out on his own. He wasn’t much inclined to ask the man who had killed him.

“It doesn’t,” Ryan said flatly. “Now. How do I get back? What do I have to do?”

“I’ll take you back,” Kurt said. “You should learn how to teleport, but I’m guessing you don’t want to miss your funeral.”

“I don’t think I’m in danger of missing my funeral,” Ryan snorted. “The meeting didn’t take an hour.” Kurt gave him a grim smile.

“Time moves a little differently for us,” he said. “But in case you need to get back here before I can check in on you, teleporting is pretty easy. All you have to do is concentrate very hard on where you want to be and sort of thrust yourself forward. Like solving a math problem.”

“Sure,” Ryan said. He didn’t fully believe or understand it, but he was trying to roll with the punches to preserve some sense of sanity. 

“You want to try and take us back?” Kurt asked. Ryan made a face. 

“Is it really that simple?” he asked. 

“No,” Kurt said. “And I doubt you can do it, but you ought to try.” His eyes sparkled with mirth, and resentment flooded through Ryan.  _ Killer. _

“Thanks for the encouragement,” Ryan muttered. He snatched Kurt’s hand and closed his eyes, focusing on the hospital with such determination his arms began shaking. The murmuring of the dead around him increased, and if he still had blood, Ryan felt sure he would have blushed. Doubtlessly they were laughing at him. He stopped abruptly, no longer willing to make a fool of himself, but when he opened his eyes to face Kurt, he realized the increase in volume came from them standing in a hospital waiting room. 

Ryan’s companion’s eyes widened, and he stared at Ryan in disbelief.

“That was… impressive,” he said, not sounding impressed. He sounded frightened. Ryan, on the other hand, felt rather pleased.

“Cool,” he chuckled. “Wait, where did Dan and Pete go?”

“Home, presumably,” Kurt said, still looking wary. “It’s been a few days, kid.”

“Don’t call me that; I’m older than you,” Ryan said. “And I still don’t understand how days have passed.”

“Be grateful, kid,” he said. “There’s not much to do for fun once you’re dead. If time didn’t go so fast you’d die again. Of boredom.”

Ryan glanced around the waiting room, no longer paying attention to the other ghost, and walked to the window. Buttery gold sunlight was streaming in, but as Ryan stuck his arm in the slanted rays, he felt a sharp burst of pain in his chest when he realized he couldn’t feel the heat. His arm even looked translucent in the sunlight, and he yanked it away, a heaviness growing behind his eyes. He bit his lip, though he soon realized that he didn’t have to fight the urge to cry. He couldn’t if he wanted to. And he did so want to.

“Hey, kid?” 

Ryan didn’t look over at first, too caught up in staring outside. It was a beautiful day outside, even with the distant shrieking of the ambulances.  _ It wasn’t fair _ .

“Hey.”

This time, Ryan felt the soft pressure on his shoulder, and he looked over, schooling his expression into disdain. The last thing he needed was his murderer’s pity.

“You think you’ll be alright on your own?” Kurt asked, smoking again. “Kid just died in a tour bus accident out in Philly. I gotta go take care of her.”

“I’m fine,” Ryan said, waving him away. “I can teleport, I don’t need to eat.”

“I’ll check on you in a bit,” Kurt said.

“That’s not necessary,” Ryan said, giving him the dead-eyed smile Ryan usually saved for management and interviewers. Kurt snorted and disappeared, leaving not even the ghostly cigarette smoke behind. 

“Douchebag,” Ryan said, and he followed a young, cheery looking family as the walked out of the front door. 

Ryan stopped just outside, sunlight filtering right through him. He could see heat waves rising from the pavement, but couldn’t feel anything. 

He turned and fled back inside the next time the doors opened. Being outside made him feel naked, and in any case, what was he going to do, walk to Las Vegas?  No, he needed to teleport there, but first he wanted to see Patrick.

Ryan hoped he was gone. If it truly had been days since he was last there and Patrick was still in a coma, then that was very bad news. Then again, maybe it had only been hours. Maybe Patrick was gone. 

Ryan walked past the bustling people in the hospital down the halls he recognized, stopping in front of a door he recognized. This time he noted the number over it, 2527, and tried to push it inward. The door wouldn’t budge. Typical.

“Okay,” Ryan spoke aloud to himself, partly just to fill the strange, humming silence. The hospital was noisy, but now that he was dead, it all sounded like noise heard from another room to Ryan unless he focused very intently on it. “Okay then. Teleporting was as easy as focusing, so maybe walking through stuff is the same?”

Staring at the door, Ryan focused very hard on being as substanceless as possible. He balled up his fists, concentrated so hard his head hurt, closed his eyes, and stepped forward. 

Ryan felt a strange wave of  _ substance _ pass over him, not quite a temperature, but almost like a wave of heat. Very close. When it passed, he opened his eyes and saw that he was on the other side of the door. The corner of his mouth lifted in a small approximation of a grin.

“Cool,” he muttered. Then he saw Patrick. 

The man looked, if anything, worse. Propped up against the starchy hospital bed, his skin looked an unhealthy mottled gray, his eyes motionless behind their lids. His arms were plugged in with IVs, and his mouth was covered with an oxygen mask. Ryan couldn’t tell what was wrong with him, but given all the help he needed just to keep breathing, he imagined it was more than one problem.

“Jesus, Patrick,” Ryan murmured, walking closer to the bed. “Kurt might get his wish fulfilled after all.”

“Ryan?” Patrick asked. Ryan glanced up and instinctively clutched at his chest as he saw a ghostly, transparent version of Patrick standing behind the living Patrick in the hospital bed. He looked more like a ghost than Ryan did, and Ryan took a step back, not bothering to conceal how afraid he was.

“What are you doing here?” Patrick asked. His voice was very faint, nearly as invisible as he was. “Pete… Pete visited… he said… you… were dead.”

Ryan gulped, looking the ghostly Patrick up and down. Unlike Ryan, Patrick looked the same in this projection as he did on the bed. He was wearing a hospital gown, and there were deep rings of purple under his eyes. Worst, by far the worst, his spine looked rather horrifically bent, making it look like he was bending over to one side from the waist up. Ryan took a few seconds to try and calm himself.

“I am dead,” he admitted. “But I don’t think you are.”

“I’m not,” Patrick agreed, “Just… very… close.”

He looked unbearably sad. Never close in life, Ryan suddenly felt the emptiness in his chest where his heart once was ache for Patrick. 

“You’re not going to die,” Ryan said, half- pleading.

“I might,” Patrick said. “I’m… sorry… you’re… dead.”

“Me too,” Ryan said. 

“They’re… burying… you,” he said. “Pete said… Las Vegas… closed casket.”

“Jesus,” Ryan ran a hand through his hair. “I should go. But, um,” he slowly extended his hand, let it hover just over Patrick’s. Patrick looked at him with unbearably sad eyes, but something within Ryan warned him against touching him. “I’ll be back, okay?”

“Bye,” Patrick waved. He looked like a proper ghost. Maybe he ought to be dead instead. Ryan was just harder to see than usual. 

Ryan walked out of the room before he started focusing. He wasn’t sure where the funeral would be exactly, but he knew where to start. Closing his eyes, Ryan tried to imagine a cemetery he hadn’t seen in ten years: vast swaths of dessicated green grass and a huge, too bright blue sky. Trees sparse between the graves, desert heat in a faux midwest landscape. He opened his eyes, and he was there. He could see the dry wind whipping through the trees, but he couldn’t feel it. He stood at the unassuming white stone, weathered by time. Someone had put a tiny American flag in the ground near the grave, but they had done it a long time ago, judging by the sun bleached pink and baby blue the colors had faded to.

“Guess I should’ve visited you earlier,” Ryan said softly. He scuffed the stone with his shoe, tracing the name  _ George Ryan Ross II _ . He stood, pensive, wondering what he would say if he could. Ryan always made a point on not speculating on pointless what if questions, but maybe they weren’t so pointless. Maybe his father had stuck around for a while, waiting for Ryan to say something to him and receiving nothing but silence in return.

Emotion stuck heavy in Ryan’s throat. He wanted to say something, anything, but no words would come. He just stood there, feeling strangely heavy as he stared at the tombstone. He ought to be buried near. He hoped they would bury him near his father. Surely Spencer knew that was what he wanted. Ryan felt unpleasant worry run through him. Who was to say that anyone knew what he wanted?

After a moment, Ryan heard the sound of footsteps behind him. He whipped around, wondering if it was some mistake, and instead he felt like he had been slammed in the chest with something heavy.  _ Spencer _ .

Ryan opened and closed his mouth, searching for words. He stretched out his hand, nearly invisible in the full Nevada sun, trying to get closer to him, afraid to step forward. Spencer wore a black suit, his piercing eyes downcast, and everything about him screamed ‘home’ to Ryan. From the frayed cuffs on his pants, a suit overused, to the one downturned corner of his mouth, to the hands folded in front of him as if in prayer.

Spencer took a deep breath and finished walking up to the grave. He produced a handful of flowers, small wildflowers and weeds that he had probably pulled from the parking lot, and laid them down on the dirt in front of the stone. The kind of gesture that Ryan would have expected of a small child, but then, neither of them ever got the chance to grow up.

Ryan wanted to say something, anything, and from the look on his face, so did Spencer. Neither of them were the most talkative, not prone to filling silences the way Brendon and Brent and even Jon had, and so the silence rang on, loud as a gunshot.

“Miss you,” Spencer said at last, his voice barely a whisper but still too loud for the noiseless cemetery. “I- I hope he found you.”

Spencer turned, began walking away with his shoulders rolled back, and Ryan was seized with a sudden, overwhelming panic, desperate for him to stay.

“SPENCE!” he cried, stumbling forward, pulled out of his trance. He knocked into the pile of flowers left on the grave, scattering them all over the ground as he screamed. 

Spencer turned around quickly, his eyes wide with fear. He stared down at the flowers and right through Ryan, looking past him in shock.

“Ry?” he asked, his voice so tiny. Ryan wanted to sob.

“Spence it’s me, it’s me, I’m here!” Ryan yelled, emotion choking his voice. He tried to grab Spencer’s hand with his own, but it passed right through.

Spencer shivered, then shook his head, turning away. Grief overwhelmed Ryan, and he fell to his knees. His body wracked with tears that would never, could never come, mourning himself as Spencer walked away. 

“I’m sorry,” Ryan said weakly. “Come back,” he pleaded to the ground. Spencer had walked too far away, and in any case, Ryan was already invisible.

***

Brendon wondered, not for the first time, what he was doing there. There in Nevada, there in Las Vegas, there in the cemetery he had visited without Ryan’s permission nearly a decade ago, there at the funeral for an ex-best friend he hardly knew. 

“You have to be there for Spencer,” Sarah had told him, fixing his tie while he sat, dead-eyed, on the hotel’s heavy green and brown duvet. “He needs you. And you need to be there.” She, thankfully, didn’t mention how much she didn’t belong at the funeral, but wore an understated black dress and made every effort to be as unobtrusive as possible. Ryan wasn’t hers to mourn, as she knew well. She was a part of the support network. Sarah supported Brendon who supported Spencer and all of them tried to keep Pete’s head above water.

Pete was a goddamn wreck. His eyes were surrounded in rings of purple. Gabe tailed him incessantly, making him keep up with medication and get dressed, but he couldn’t force feed him or make him close his eyes once he laid down in bed. It didn’t sound like Patrick was getting any better, didn’t look hopeful that he would make a full recovery, and whenever someone tried to talk to Pete he would shrug. Brendon expressed his doubts that going to the funeral would be anything but harmful to Pete, but Pete came to life when he said it might be a bad idea, demanding that they take him. 

They all booked rooms at the same hotel, a gaudy Parisian themed building on the strip, nearly an hour’s drive from Summerlin, but preferable from staying in that damned town for another night, not that it had helped much. Brendon wanted to put off entering the town for as long as he could, and the rest of Vegas felt almost homey. The bright lights were a comfort to him, the incessant music like a comfort blanket. He couldn’t sleep much, but it was easier to pretend in the middle of the city

Jon was there too, according to Spencer, who went out for breakfast with him before the funeral. Joe and Andy were there, the rest of Cobra Starship, Eric who had played cello for them on tour, some of their old backup dancers… it was a regular family reunion. Brendon kept splashing his face with cold water, though he hadn’t cried enough to warrant it. He hadn’t cried since the first night, shutting down instead. It just didn’t feel real to him.

“It’s time,” Sarah told him eventually, her eyes full of borrowed sorrow. 

“Spencer?” Brendon asked.

“Went ahead of us,” Sarah said. Brendon must have frowned, because she continued.

“He said he wanted to visit somewhere else in town. Said it was personal,” she shrugged. “We can ride with Pete. Gabe rented a car.”

“Should Spencer be on his own?” Brendon asked. Sarah squeezed his knee.

“Linda’s with him. He’ll be fine,” she looked like she was going to stand up, but she paused, biting her lip. “How are you doing, sweetheart? Have you slept at all the past few days?”

Brendon shrugged, wishing she hadn’t asked. 

“I’ll be okay,” he said. It seemed a safe answer, as surely he would be okay at some point. He wasn’t sure whether or not he was okay now. He still felt numb and disbelieving. Sarah seemed to accept it, however, and she smiled at him, rubbing his arm. 

“C’mon, baby,” she said, “Let’s go.”

Brendon had planned on sitting next to Sarah, but he saw the problem as soon as Gabe pulled the car around. Rather than sitting in the passenger seat, Pete was sitting behind the driver’s seat, his eyes clamped shut and his knuckles white over the knees of his suit. Sarah gave him an unnecessary look, and he got in the backseat next to Pete, letting Sarah get in the front next to Gabe. 

Pete’s fingers were tangled together, picking feverishly at the bloody nubs left of his nails as the car lurched forward. Brendon reached out a hand with exaggerated slowness and laid it on Pete’s shoulder. Pete still shuddered and shrank away from the touch.

“How are you doing?” Brendon asked, his voice low. Pete shook his head once, eyes fixed forward. His hair looked unkempt. Brendon rubbed his arm. The car jolted over a bump in the road and Pete inhaled sharply, his hands digging even tighter into his knees. His eyes were wide with fear, and Brendon gave up on pretense and grabbed his hand.

“Talk to me,” he pleaded urgently. Pete shook his head again, staring down at the carpet.

“Please,” Brendon said. Pete closed his eyes, opened them again slowly.

“I- I didn’t mean-” he said, then shook his head again. “How am I supposed to see her?”

“Who?” Brendon asked.

“His mom,” Pete’s voice cracked, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he took shallow breaths. 

“It’s not your fault,” Brendon said, and Pete shook his head again.

“I was driving.”

Sirens were coming from somewhere, and Pete closed his eyes yet again, looking like he very badly wanted to cover his ears.

“Pete,” Brendon said. He had no idea where to start, but he had to say something. What he needed, he knew, was Patrick, but Brendon wasn’t sure if he was ever going to have him there to help again.

Not knowing how to fix it, Brendon let the subject drop. Rather than saying anything, he held Pete’s hand, taking deep breaths of his own as Gabe followed the GPS instructions out of the city and into Summerlin. Brendon could have told him how to get there, but he didn’t want to look, didn’t want to pay attention to the plastic-y lawns and suburbs that were sprawling out around him. 

“The service’ll be at the grave site,” Gabe said after parking, the sound of the doors slamming still painfully loud even with all of the other people exiting their cars. No matter what he did, Brendon thought, Ryan could always draw a crowd. He almost smiled, but he caught himself. 

Sarah steered Brendon immediately over to Linda, leaning on the hood of a dust colored rental car and looking concerned. Sarah walked up to her and bent her head against Linda’s, her face drawn tight as she spoke in harsh, clipped whispers.

“Babe?” she asked Brendon in a hushed voice. “Do you know what Spencer would want to stop by at this cemetery? Linda says he’s been gone for a while…”

Concern stirred up in the pit of Brendon’s stomach, but not much of it. 

“No idea,” he said tonelessly. “Maybe he went on ahead to Ry- to the grave. We should check it out, anyway. Everyone else is leaving.”

Sarah tugged Linda along with her, both of them following Brendon into the throng of people dressed in black. Brendon recognized some of them, but most were strangers. A few people towards the front had similar facial features to Ryan, and he wondered if they were his siblings. Brendon had only met them a few times, and he wasn’t even positive he would get their names right if he tried speaking to them. 

The mourners stood around a huge hole in the earth, too big for Ryan, Brendon thought. There was a coffin sitting just next to it, and he was suddenly hit with the realization that all that was left of Ryan was in that box. He felt like he was about to fall over.

“It won’t be long,” Spencer said. Brendon looked up, embarrassed to realize that his vision was blurry from tears. “Catholic services never are. I don’t even think they’re doing a full mass for him. We can’t very well take communion out here, right?” He laughed without humor, and Brendon returned the laugh with a similarly pathetic smile.

“Good. I think it’d interrupt the funeral if I burst into flames when the priest touched me,” Brendon teased, his voice carefully low even though they stood at the back of the service. 

“I’m sure Ryan would have appreciated it,” he heard from behind. Jon smirked at Brendon, and though he hadn’t seen him, hadn’t wanted to see him in years, he felt a sudden rush of affection for him. Jon looked like the same scruffy hippie Brendon remembered, only now looking somewhat presentable and wearing a suit. “Is there a reception after this, or can we wind down on our own?”

“Definitely on our own,” Spencer said, his smile genuine this time. “I’ve had more than enough Ross family for one lifetime. Wanna come, Bren?”

“Absolutely,” Brendon said. He felt embarrassingly relieved to have been invited. 

“Zack free?” Jon asked. “I’m shocked you managed to ditch your babysitter for the day,” he teased Brendon.

“He had family stuff. Didn’t come into town,” Brendon admitted. “Were you looking for a grand reunion? I could invite Brent, if you want.”

“Funny,” Jon said, rolling his eyes. “C’mon. Old school extra curriculars,” he said, half-removing a plastic bag from his pocket. 

Brendon burst into hysterical giggles, and immediately felt ridiculous for giggling at a funeral, but he couldn’t help it. He felt ridiculous for giggling at a funeral, but even more ridiculous for crowding around a tiny plastic bag of weed like a teenager, hidden away from the real grown-ups. The whole thing made him feel almost hysterically giddy, even mid tragedy. It took Jon’s elbow dug into his ribs to make Brendon realize that a dry, oppressive hush had fallen over the crowd, and the priest was beginning to speak.

“In the name of the father…” the wizened old man began in his deep, sonorous voice.

“...and of the son, and of the Holy Ghost, amen,” the whole crowd repeated back, Brendon stumbling over the words slightly. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in a proper service, and this one seemed to involve an unnecessary amount of pomp and circumstance, as the priest raised his right hand and made the sign of the cross over the whole audience. 

Brendon did his best to tune out the service as the priest spoke, letting his eyes wander around the cemetery. He thought he saw something glinting a few feet behind the coffin, but he squinted away from the sun. It was too damn bright out for a funeral anyway.

He started paying attention once people started going up and sharing their memories of Ryan. His blood felt hot as Ryan’s mother went up and told a story about her boy, the musician, the devout Catholic, a boy that hadn’t existed since before he moved in with his father. Spencer was invited to go up, but he declined with one pained shake of his head, and a man Brendon thought he recognized distantly walked up last, a nasty cut on his forehead held together with a butterfly bandage.

“I loved Ryan,” he said, his eyes shining with moisture as he concluded an anecdote that buzzed through Brendon’s head like a foreign language. “It felt like, whenever I spoke with him, he understood me intimately. I’ve never had that with anyone else. That deep, personal sense of belonging. I don’t think I ever will have it with anyone else.”

Brendon thought, bitterly, that this stranger could join the fucking club.

“Ryan was- is my soulmate,” he concluded, stepping down. Brendon’s ribcage was suddenly much too tight for his heart and lungs held inside them. Too late to be jealous.

“The Nicene Creed,” the priest said, his deep voice leading the congregation in the creed. Brendon flipped through the leaflet handed out for the funeral, but couldn’t find a copy of it within. Damn, but he didn’t remember any sort of creed anymore. He opened and closed his mouth to make it look like he was speaking without saying anything as the congregation spoke in unison.

“We believe in one God,

the Father, the Almighty,

maker of heaven and earth,

of all that is, seen and unseen.”

Brendon let his eyes wander around the cemetery. They were about to put Ryan in the ground, end it all, and none of it felt real. And all these people, all in black, did they all really understand that this was the end? Well, not all in black. Someone was just wearing a flannel…

“We believe in one Lord, Jesus Christ,

the only Son of God,

eternally begotten of the Father,

God from God, Light from Light,

true God from true God,

begotten, not made,

of one Being with the Father.”

But no, Brendon could barely see him, leaning up against a tree a few yards away from the funeral, probably not there for Ryan at all. The stranger was slouched, curly brown hair hanging in his eyes and curls of nearly invisible smoke drifting away from his cigarette. Strangely, though, he was nearly invisible too, like Brendon could see right through him, like he was made from cellophane. And, he realized with a jolt like electricity to his chest, he looked just like Ryan.

“Through him all things were made.

For us and for our salvation

he came down from heaven:

by the power of the Holy Spirit

he became incarnate from the Virgin Mary,

and was made man.”

Ryan rolled his eyes, tilting his head back in a languid motion. His eyes fell shut and his mouth parted, lips still luscious and pink even when they were half transparent. He was mouthing along with the creed, swaying his head back and forth like he was singing.

“For our sake he was crucified under Pontius Pilate;

he suffered death and was buried.

On the third day he rose again

in accordance with the Scriptures;

he ascended into heaven,”

Ryan smiled like he had heard a good joke, his eyes snapping open and glancing over the crowd. Brendon  _ knew  _ that look, knew it better than he knew himself, the forced bravado, the too-cool-for-this look that barely concealed how terrified Ryan was of something. His eyes scanned the crowd and met Brendon’s, and both of them froze.

“and is seated at the right hand of the Father.

He will come again in glory to judge the living and the dead,

and his kingdom will have no end.”

Ryan’s eyes popped as he stared at Brendon, no longer mouthing along to the creed. He looked almost as frightened as Brendon felt, and slowly, deliberately, his lips formed the silent question: “Can you see me?”

“We believe in the Holy Spirit, the Lord, the giver of life,

who proceeds from the Father and the Son.

With the Father and the Son he is worshiped and glorified.”

Brendon wasn’t pretending to speak the words either, and his breathing was shallow. Ryan stood up straight, staring at Brendon desperately, pleadingly.

“He has spoken through the Prophets.

We believe in one holy catholic and apostolic Church.

We acknowledge one baptism for the forgiveness of sins.”

Brendon nodded.

“We look for the resurrection of the dead,”

“Brendon,” Ryan said, his voice only a whisper, but somehow Brendon could hear it from so far away, clear as a bell, clearly absolutely  _ Ryan _ , smokey and raw and real.

“and the life of the world to come. Amen.”

“Brendon!” Ryan yelled, pushing off of the tree and towards Brendon.

“Excuse me!” Brendon gasped, his voice ragged and too loud, the entire service turning to look at him, but he didn’t care. He had turned from whatever the hell was behind the coffin, running, the ground slipping under his feet like water as he tore from the congregation. He made it barely a hundred yards before falling to his knees, retching up pink bile, his lungs refusing to take in air.

“Brendon!” Ryan called.

“You’re not real,” Brendon moaned. He felt cold hands on his back, and overwhelmed with panic, watched as the world around him faded into white.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jesus, I'm bad at updating. Anyways, I've recently been struck with some more inspiration for this, so I hope you guys like it, cuz I loved this chapter. Please let me know in the comments! Thanks for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

It took Brendon less than a minute to come awake, he found out later, but when his eyes opened and refocused he was lying on his back, surrounded by concerned faces all blurring together, none of them looking remotely like Ryan. Sarah smoothed his hair back away from his forehead, her lips moving, saying something to him that Brendon couldn’t quite hear.

Brendon blinked a few times, and when he still saw no sign of Ryan, his heart gradually stopped racing. He swallowed, his throat feeling rough and dry, and forced his mouth into a weak smile. 

“Did I get smited after all?” he asked weakly. Sarah laughed once, smoothed his hair back again, and tugged him up into a sitting position, still sprawled on the grass. She rubbed his hands feverishly, and Brendon realized by the heat radiating from her skin that he must be freezing in spite of the desert heat.

“Probably,” Spencer said drily. His face was still pinched with worry. “What happened?”

“I thought I saw-” Brendon began, but he stopped himself. The last thing he needed was for everyone to think he had gone completely crazy, and in any case, though he was surrounded by friends, there was no knowing who all could hear him. He didn’t want some Perez Hilton type reporter stalking the interview, just waiting to write an article about how cracked he was. Instead, he shook his head. “I mean, I don’t know, I was seeing heat waves, you feel? I’m tired, I think,” he said. It wasn’t a lie. “I haven’t really slept much the past few days.”

“Sweetie,” Sarah ran her fingers through his scalp, and despite his complaints about the heat, he shivered. 

“I think- I think-” Brendon looked all around him, but he could see no signs that Ryan had been there-- except, of course, for the pale brown casket. 

“Come on, forget the reception, you need rest,” Sarah pleased, her voice sweet and welcome in his ear. And maybe, Brendon thought, maybe it wasn't a lie. He was overwhelmingly exhausted, and the odds of him making up a grief hallucination like that weren't impossible. Still, he had heard Ryan's voice, closer than he'd heard it in years. Like they were standing next to one another, murmuring quietly and ignoring the rest of the world around them. Like having a cloud of smoke blown directly onto his face. 

“Good idea,” Brendon said, swallowing hard again. His heart was still beating too fast, and he couldn’t help but keep looking around him, half expecting to see Ryan standing over him.

“Let’s get out of here, I think people are a little pissed at us,” Spencer said, sliding his arm under Brendon’s shoulders and heaving him to his feet. Brendon staggered as he leaned on Spencer, and he could half-imagine Ryan laughing at him. 

_ “You look like a drunk baby giraffe,” _ Ryan had told him the very first time he got drunk around him, which only made Brendon laugh harder, sending him falling over right into Ryan’s arms, warm and floating. 

Definitely a grief hallucination, Brendon decided. 

Brendon did his best to ignore the glares still coming from the people surrounding Ryan’s casket as he let Spencer and Sarah lead him out. Everyone else appeared to have stayed for whatever remained of the funeral, but he didn’t think that his still fluttering heart could really take throwing a shovelful of dirt on top of Ryan’s corpse. 

The ride back to the hotel was eerily more lighthearted than the trip to the cemetery. Now with a goal-- namely, cheering Brendon up, everyone seemed more animated. None of them mentioned where they had been, what they had been doing, but that suited Brendon just fine. He wanted nothing more than to forget all about Ryan Ross once and for all.

Sarah, Spencer, and Linda kept up the chatter all the way into the hotel room, at which point Sarah turned on the TV with the volume low, flipping through channels without really looking at them, and Spencer started texting. Though there weren’t many places to sit, they both walked wide circles around the bed. The behavior made no sense to Brendon until he remembered that he was supposed to be going to sleep. He was tired, but exhausted as he was, sleep seemed to be an impossibility. Still, his friends kept looking at him in their peripheral view, so he kicked off his shoes and crawled under the heavy hotel duvet, making a great effort to keep his eyes closed and to not think about Ryan.

The TV was drowned out by the loud hum of the air conditioner, a whirring noise that throbbed to a steady rhythm. It’s plastic casing shuddered loudly with every fifteen breaths Brendon took, the artificial smelling air sucked in and blown back out with more thought than breathing usually required of Brendon or anyone. He could just barely hear people talking, muted behind the thrumming A/C and the cover pulled up protectively past his ears.

“...really beat up about it…”

“God, wouldn’t you be? I mean, they were…”

But they weren’t. Not ever.

Brendon and Ryan never dated. They never got each other chocolate or went out for Italian, never celebrated anniversary or even kissed, not when they could avoid it. It was largely, as Brendon used to call it onstage: “Hardcore, monstrous fucking,” and all behind closed doors. Ryan was amazing at a number of things, things like singing and writing and guitar and Scrabble and holding his liquor and rock climbing, but nowhere in his arsenal of talents did “fidelity” show up.

There was however, romance, unexpected as it was. There were handfuls of wildflowers pressed into Brendon’s chest with a look in Ryan’s eyes so intense Brendon thought it would burn holes right through him. There were half-written songs played late at night, half-sung and half-whispered with his rough, used-up voice. There were feverish, naked declarations of love and there was quoted poetry. And then, suddenly, nothing. Maybe not so suddenly, Brendon thought, but once Ryan was gone his absence hit Brendon like the air had been ripped from his lungs. 

It didn’t feel like Brendon had ever fallen asleep, but at some point he must have. There was no noise in the room but the loud humming air conditioner, and even with his eyes closed, he could tell that the room was darker.

What awoke him was the duvet on his chest, suddenly feeling as though it weighed a hundred points, crushing his lungs flat against his spine. Brendon kicked the cover away, revelling in the renewed ability to breathe when he did. He took a few breaths, trying to calm his heart rate, when he heard a familiar, lazy voice in his ear.

“You know they don’t wash those, right?”

Brendon’s eyes slammed open and he threw himself back against the headboard, heart hammering again. He forced himself to look at Ryan, leaning up against the pillow next to him, his bored voice not matching the intense, pleading expression on his face. His silvery, translucent face.

Brendon couldn’t breathe again.

“The cover, that is,” Ryan said. “They wash the sheets, but don’t do the covers unless they’re really stained. I’ve told you this a thousand times on tour.” 

Brendon felt like he must be turning as blue as Ryan when he finally managed to choke words out.

“You’re dead,” he whispered. Ryan’s face melted into pain like he’d been punched in the gut.

“I know,” he whispered back. “But you can see me.”

Brendon shook his head rapidly back and forth, not saying no, but trying to shake the image away.

“You can’t be here,” Brendon whispered. He wanted to scream, but his voice wouldn’t obey him, and instead came out raspy, breathless. “You’re dead, we- they buried you!”

“Look,” Ryan said, frustration coloring his voice, “I understand that this is probably a difficult time for you, but  _ Brendon _ -”

It was hearing his own name that pushed Brendon over the edge. It sounded  _ so  _ familiar; it was frustrated, pleading, but somehow still fond. Fear and pain threatened to overwhelm Brendon, and he screamed an ear piercing, scream-queen scream. His hand shot out to the bedside table, intent on finding a light to turn on, but instead he managed to knock over and shatter the lamp sitting on it. The room was a cacophony of panic noise.

Childishly, still afraid, Brendon pulled his knees up to his chest and covered his eyes, all the while still screaming as loud as he could. Ryan kept trying to shout over him, which only made Brendon scream louder, desperate to drown him out.

“Bren, stop!” Ryan yelled. “Please! It’s me! I just want to talk to you!”

Brendon shook his head too fast, sucked in a breath, screamed louder.

“Brendon!” There was a new voice at the door, female, not Ryan. “Baby, what’s wrong? Open the door, baby!”

“Brendon, please,” Ryan was desperate, “Please don’t do this to me.”

“I’m coming in!” the girl at the door yelled.

Brendon didn’t look up until he could see light streaming through the spaces in his fingers. He pulled his hands only as far down as his collar and stared up at Sarah, still terrified. 

Sarah, for her part, swooped down on him, immediately pushing his hair back and staring back at him with wide, terrified eyes.

“Baby, baby, what’s wrong?” she pleaded, to frightened to soothe.

Brendon turned and saw Ryan still there, standing up now and looking much more translucent with the lights on, but still there. Brendon pointed at him, his hand and voice shaking as he spoke:

“He’s there, he’s right there, it’s Ryan!” 

“Oh no,” Ryan whispered.

“Brendon,” Sarah said, but she didn’t sound horrified. She didn’t even sound shocked. She sounded heartbroken, and when Brendon turned to her, she looked like she was about to start crying. “Baby…”

Realization hit Brendon like he’d been slapped.

“Can’t you see him?” His voice cracked on “see.”

“Jesus,” someone else said, their voice deeper. Brendon looked up, frantic to find the source, and he realized that his room was much fuller than he thought. Sarah was flanked from behind by Spencer and Linda, with Pete and Meagan standing in the doorway. Frustrated, overwhelmed tears filled Brendon’s eyes.  _ Come watch me have a meltdown, why don’t you? Next time I’ll just sell tickets. _

“Sorry, Bren,” Ryan whispered, and Brendon knew without turning that he had disappeared once again.

“I’m not crazy,” Brendon pleaded. “He was right there, Ryan was  _ right there! _ ”

“Sweetie,” Sarah said, stroking his hair, “Sweetie, it was just a dream.”

“I was awake!” Brendon shouted. Sarah flinched, and worse, everyone else looked like they pitied him.

“It- it’s normal to think you see-” 

Brendon was already shaking his head.

“I saw him at the funeral too,” he admitted, staring at his wife, begging her to believe him.

“Brendon, I-” she began, then glanced behind her. “Give us a minute, okay?”

The room emptied, and as it did, Brendon collapsed backward onto the pillow, his breathing shallow. His heart was pounding so hard that his chest hurt, and as he leaned back he felt water trickle down into his hairline. Oh. He had been crying, apparently.

“I’m not crazy,” he whispered.

“I don’t think you are,” Sarah promised, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

Brendon fell against her, drained and terrified. She didn’t really believe him, he was sure, but pretending was enough for now. He wanted nothing more than to let himself be comforted by her, and so he fell face first into her chest and started sobbing.

***

Ryan was hiding in the bathroom.

Good as he was at it, he found that teleporting when he was stressed or emotional was significantly more difficult. So, in an attempt to make things slightly better for Brendon, he hid in the bathroom.

There he sat, on the lid of the toilet, and his mind kept reeling, jerking fast and unnatural like damaged film as his thoughts tugged him this way and that. Everything swirled madly around one central point.

Brendon could see him.

_ Brendon could see him. _

Ryan’s mind was a mess. He was a hurricane- no, he was a tornado, a collision of thoughts as opposing as hot and cold air, swirled and tangled amongst themselves but still a destructive force of nature, taking out everything in his path. 

Unfortunately, the only thing that could be in his path anymore was Brendon.

Brendon could see him.

And sure, beggars couldn’t be choosers or whatever, but Ryan would not have picked Brendon to be the one living person he could communicate with. He wouldn’t even have made the top ten. They hadn’t spoken, not properly, in years, and when they did it was stilted, like talking to the visiting friend of a parent. He was over Brendon, long over him, and it would have been so much easier if he could be seen by Dan or Alex or Z.

But then again, maybe there was some universal force with a sense of humor. Ha ha. The only person who could really see Ryan was Brendon. Very fucking funny. Poetic irony.

_ Brendon could see him. _

But was it certainly just Brendon? Ryan was next to invisible at the funeral, so he was easy to miss. Sure, no one saw him at the hospital, or again in Brendon’s hotel room, but that wasn’t the whole world. That was just two variations on Pete Wentz and Friends.

Ryan felt sure that no one else could see him, but a gut feeling wasn’t proof. There were eight billion people in the world. There was surely no way that Brendon was the only living person that could see him, right?

He couldn’t say for sure. He was afraid to find out, because if no one else could see him, then what? What if someone else could see him? Ryan didn’t have a purpose. He couldn’t win a game for his hockey team anymore, couldn’t walk his dogs, couldn’t even go out to a bar and get smashed and bring a pretty girl home with him. What was he still doing there?

There was no denying that Ryan still wanted to roam the earth. He just wasn’t sure why. Nothing was holding him there, nothing but an intense, longing pull.

Brendon could see him.

The idea of being a ghost was, for some reason, much easier when he thought he was invisible to the whole world. What did it mean if Brendon could see him? They sure as hell weren’t soulmates, they had taken turns proving that over the years. Unless the universe was exceedingly cruel. 

Patrick could see him too, sort of, but that felt different. And again, Ryan never planned on spending eternity with Brendon Urie and Patrick Stump.

If it had something to do with being understood, understood at his core, then realistically, Pete ought to be able to see him. Ryan didn’t like to admit it, but Pete understood him at a level he hadn’t even known was possible. It had been a long time ago, but then, it had been a long time since he had spoken to Brendon like that. And for the first time in years, Ryan really, really wanted to talk to Pete.

Ryan knew they were in the next room ever, so he stared at the bathroom wall. It looked very solid. Ryan’s eyebrows drew together. It didn’t seem like something he could walk through, but he wasn’t very solid himself. Ryan closed his eyes, and walked determinedly at the wall. 

Almost at once, his leg connect with the toilet, and something that wasn’t quite pain shot through him. 

“Son of a bitch!” he swore under his breath, his eyes flying open. He imagined that the wall looked smug, if it it could have an expression. 

He needed a new plan. He didn’t want to walk through the hotel room and scare Brendon, not yet. He would try again when Brendon was alone, when it was light out. As it was, he didn’t want him to get committed to a psych ward just yet. If he couldn’t walk through walls, and he couldn’t go through the bedroom, he would have to teleport, but unfortunately, he could only teleport to places he had been before, it seemed like. 

Ryan sighed, the feeling strange as his lungs felt nothing. Did he have lungs? That was a disturbing thought. He supposed he didn’t have any corporeal parts, but still….

He had just followed Brendon at a distance to his room, so he knew the room numbers. He could just will himself back outside to Las Vegas Boulevard again, he decided.

“The things I do for you, Bren,” Ryan muttered under his breath, and opened his eyes to the dazzling lights of the Strip.

“I don’t suppose anybody can see me out here, either?” Ryan screamed. He stood in front of the fountains at the Bellagio, and tourists were swarming around him, oohing and ahing the sight. A dough-faced woman walked right through him. Ryan raised his eyes skyward for a moment, then walked across the street to the Paris hotel. 

After nearly an hour of trying to work up enough energy to press the elevator button for the right floor, another tourist took care of it for him, and Ryan leaned against the elevator wall, exhausted, only to start falling through it. He yanked himself back onto the elevator at the last second, swearing up a storm that no one in the elevator heard. 

When he finally got up to Pete’s hotel room, he almost cried when he saw the closed door. He banged noiselessly on the door, desperation threatening to overwhelm him, until, amazingly, he heard the faintest knocking noise against the wood.

“Did you hear that?” a girl’s voice said from inside. Ryan’s heart leapt and he allowed himself a brief moment of hope.

“I should check,” Pete said. Ryan tried not to worry about how dull his voice sounded, how constricted Pete’s throat was, because he opened the door and Ryan threw himself into the room, hardly noticing as he blew through Pete. For his part, Pete shivered slightly, then shut the door. 

Pete looked terrible.

Ryan had seen him at the funeral (he didn’t want to call it his funeral, still didn’t like acknowledging how dead and buried he was) but Pete must have been holding himself together in public, because now, in a room with just Meagan and Gabe, he was a wreck. His face was red and puffy, he already looked thinner than when Ryan had last seen him, when Ryan was still alive. For the first time Ryan could ever remember, Pete looked his age, not an ageless twenty-something, but a mess of a man closer to forty than thirty. He didn’t look like the larger than life super-human that Ryan met when he was a teenager.

“Pete,” Ryan whispered, reaching a hand out towards his face. Pete sat down on the edge of the bed, shaking his head before Ryan got too close.

“Must’ve been someone else’s room,” he said. His lips were dry and cracked, and Ryan wondered idly where the chapstick he always kept on him was. 

Pete was still wearing the expensive black suit from the funeral, though it had ended hours ago. Ryan knew there had been a reception, but hadn’t wanted to go, trailing behind Brendon instead. Everyone else had changed for bed, ridiculously early at eleven at night in Vegas.

“Worried about Brendon?” Gabe asked.

“Of course I am,” Pete snapped. “Aren’t you?”

“He’s gonna be okay, dude,” Gabe said. “I think he’s just in shock. Didn’t you say you were seeing Ryan at first too?”

If Ryan had still had a beating heart, it would have stopped. 

“I don’t think Brendon’s seeing the same Ryan I see,” Pete said darkly.

“Can you see me?” Ryan asked, his voice raised slightly.

“The point,” Gabe said firmly, “Is that grief hallucinations are common after a serious loss. It makes sense that he’d think he sees Ryan.”

Ryan opened his mouth to proclaim that he was  _ not  _ a hallucination when Pete spoke up again.

“No it doesn’t!” Pete was almost shouting, his hands clenched into fists. “They aren’t even friends anymore! We don’t even have a right to be here, to go to his funeral! After everything that’s gone down, all the things we’ve said to him-! Jesus, I’m the one that killed him!”

“Pete,” Ryan whispered. He felt a hollow pain where his chest should be.

“It is not your fault!” Meagan said, her eyes huge. Girls’ eyes always got bigger when they were emotional. Brendon’s did the same.

“The other driver was asleep at the wheel, Pete!” Gabe said. “You were t-boned. That isn’t your fault.”

Pete just shook his head. Ryan could see in his lowered eyes that he didn’t believe a word of it.

“Pete, can you hear me?” Ryan asked, moving his face right up against Pete’s ear. Pete shivered, like he could feel Ryan, but he might have just been cold. Ryan knew how Vegas air conditioning was.

“I see him the way he looked in the accident,” Pete said, his voice barely audible. Ryan leaned in closer, until he was practically in Pete’s lap. He didn’t even remember the accident that killed him: he wanted to hear as much about it as possible. 

“He was so… mangled. There was broken glass in his throat. His throat, Jesus, and I still thought he could live. Half of his body was just crushed into the side of the car. He was covered in blood and bent completely in half, snapped at the waist.” Pete took a breath, wet and ragged. “I still see him like that whenever I close my eyes- I still see him.”

“It’s not real,” Meagan said, and unlike Brendon, Pete seemed comforted by her words. 

“You didn’t kill me,” Ryan said, even though he knew Pete couldn’t hear him. “But somebody did. You know that, don’t you? You can tell.”

Pete shivered again. Ryan couldn’t tell the temperature, not without a body, but he suddenly noticed that Meagan was in a very thin dress, and Gabe was in a tank top. The A/C was off, and Pete still hadn’t taken off his jacket.

“What if I killed both of them?”

“Patrick isn’t dead,” Gabe said, wrapping his arm around Pete’s waist and pulling him in. “He’s gonna recover.”

“He’s dying,” Pete insisted, tears spilling over.

“Baby,” Meagan sat on Pete’s other side, unknowingly forcing Ryan out of his position on the bed. Annoyed, Ryan stood in the corner.

It took a while for the two of them to convince Pete to go to bed, but he did at last, still shaking under all the covers in the room. Ryan waited patiently, knowing that the other two would fall asleep far before Pete did. Sure enough, Pete was staring blankly at the wall after Gabe’s snores filled the room in the other bed and Meagan’s breathing steadied out next to him. Ryan took a deep breath, and then screamed at the top of his lungs.

“WAKE UP, PETE!” 

Pete didn’t stir, and the frustration that seemed to have moved in just under the surface of Ryan’s translucent skin rose to the surface again.

“PETE!” he screamed, trying to shove him and ruffling the blankets slightly. “PETE! WAKE UP! I NEED TO TALK TO YOU! I KNOW YOU CAN SEE ME! PETE!”

Pete yanked the blanket back up under his chin, his eyes huge with fright but staring right through Ryan.

“Pete, you RUINED MY LIFE, and now that I’m dead, you owe it to me to WAKE UP AND NOTICE ME! PETE!” Ryan shrieked.

Still Pete didn’t look like he saw Ryan. However, at that moment, someone began banging on the door.

“Pete?” Brendon sounded terrified, and Ryan looked at the thin wall separating the two hotel room, realizing that he might have made a mistake. 

Pete got up at once, throwing open the door to the hotel room to reveal a very panicked Brendon.

“Fuck,” Ryan whispered.

“What is it?” Pete asked.

“It’s Ryan, I can hear him, he keeps screaming your name!” Brendon said hurriedly.

“Balls,” Ryan groaned.

“He what?” Ryan groaned, as he heard the fear in Pete’s voice, and disappeared, willing himself anywhere else in the world before he could cause more damage. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all the reviews are really inspiring me to keep working on this- I'm so glad you guys like it!

**Author's Note:**

> what am I writing? Who knows? I'll update if people seem interested.


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